


Next time

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Injury, Comfort Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), Recovery, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: “Hey,” he says. She grins. There are bruises around her left eye, a yellowing scrape on her jaw, but there’s colour in her cheeks. She looks herself again, here and present. Relief makes him smile back, then yelp at what that does to his lip. They're both injured, and they both want to be close.





	

He has to hold still. There’s a smell of blood and burnt guzzoline, his ears are ringing from the noise of the explosion. There’s certainly sweat – and, from the slow stickiness, probably blood – running down his face. The scrape in his hairline is shallow, he’s pretty sure. The dull, wrong ache in his left elbow and fingers is more serious, rising to a jagged pain if he’s not careful with it. He’s exhausted, but he has to hold still.

Toast is driving, fanging it. Some part of Max is still surprised that he’s letting someone else, who is not Furiosa, drive his car even in an emergency, but they’re travelling fast and sure. They’re back in Citadel territory, any surviving Buzzards are unlikely to follow this far. Toast’s patrol car is following them, driven by Lug.

“Nearly there,” Toast says. Her voice is harsh, which means she’s scared. They all are. 

He’s holding Furiosa steady with his right arm. She’s had a glancing blow to the head that may mean concussion, but he’s most worried about the slash across her left thigh. It missed the artery, but she’s bled heavily, even through the wadding and bandage they’ve managed to rig up. It had been a calculated risk, going into an abandoned settlement for salvage. They’d come out on the wrong side of it, first with aggressive rival scavengers, then tangling with Buzzards on the way back. They don’t even have much to show for it. Max had dropped everything he’d found, though Furiosa had somehow clung to the bundle of rubber tubing she’d been checking when they were attacked.

Toast had met them at the edge of Citadel territory, taken one look at Max, trying to keep Furiosa upright from his place at the wheel, and offered to drive. She’d been just a little bit excited when he agreed, though she’d tried to hide it.

Max holds Furiosa all the way home, talking to her, trying to keep her awake. He doesn’t remember what he says. 

Mel, the Vuvalini healer, rolls her eyes at the pair of them. It’s a relief, because that means it’s not too bad. He’s still worried about Furiosa’s blood loss; he’d considered rigging up a transfusion, but didn’t want to stop driving, and the tourniquet had held. He offers his blood now, holding his arm out as he tries to get his jacket off. 

“Maybe,” says Mel. “Get you both cleaned up first.”

The next hour is bad. He hates the infirmary, though they’ve cleaned away most of the signs of the Organic Mechanic’s time. Furiosa is awake but groggy. Her thigh needs stitches, there’s some bruising on her side – Mel asks about blows to her ribs – but no signs of concussion. Mel seems pleased with her progress, which doesn’t entirely stop Max’s twitching. 

He’s not surprised to find that his left arm and two of his fingers need setting and splinting. He grumbles that Mel’s plaster cast is overkill for the scale of the injury.

“Only chance I’ve got of getting you to keep it still,” she replies, tartly, and wraps on another layer to reduce his mobility further. Neither the head scrape nor his split lip need stitches. “Those won’t scar,” Mel says, cheerfully, “but your bruises will be a lovely colour in a day or two.”

At last they’re both put into soft, clean clothes. Mel’s assistant takes one look at Max’s cast and gives up, leaving him bare-chested but wrapped in a sheet and blankets.

For once, Mel manages to keep them in the infirmary for two nights, drifting between doped sleep and nightmares. By the third, they’re allowed back to Furiosa’s room, if only because Mel knows they’ll sleep better there.

“Don’t bar the door,” she tells them, as they’re moved back. “I’ll need to check you overnight, and in the morning.” It’s agreed that Gilly will patrol their floor, waiting at the end of the corridor. Nobody expects an attack; it’s a promise designed to help them both sleep, despite the unlocked door.

They don’t share the bed. The first night, Furiosa had had a nightmare that nearly ripped her bandages off, and narrowly missed pushing Max to the floor. If they’re going to thrash, they’ll have to do it separately. Mel arranges to have her propped up in bed, and begs a chair from the former milking mothers for Max. It’s what used to be called a nursing chair, padded and supportive but without any arms. It’s patched, and slightly lumpy where stuffing has been replaced, but it will let him sleep upright, holding him in a good position for his arm. 

“Might as well have put you to bed in your car,” Mel points out, tucking the blanket over him. She sets water bottles in reach and brings them cups of herbal tea. He knows she’s brewed him a sedative. After years in the desert, he distrusts anything that slows his reactions, but he can see that deep sleep and painkillers will do Furiosa good, so he swallows his own tea as encouragement. He’s surprised and relieved by how meekly she drinks hers. Mel tries to hide a smile, and orders them both to sleep. 

They do, pretty much. Whatever Mel’s checks are, she manages not to disturb them. It’s very early morning when Max wakes, the light still grey. He can hear Gilly’s step outside, as she walks the corridor and returns to her post, footsteps fading as she moves out of earshot. He’s still listening when he realises Furiosa’s eyes are on him.

“Hey,” he says. She smiles. There are bruises around her left eye, a yellowing scrape on her jaw, but there’s colour in her cheeks. She looks herself again, here and present. Relief makes him smile back, then yelp at what that does to his lip. The blanket has slipped down in the night. When Furiosa puts her hand out, she can just stroke her fingertips down his bare left side, careful to avoid his wrapped arm. 

She’s looking him over, eyes on his splint, on his mouth and hairline, checking the blankets to see if there are any other signs of injury. 

“You got me back,” she says. He grunts; shrugging is not an option. 

“Toast picked us up,” he explains, not sure how much she remembers of the journey. He reaches his right hand round to catch hers. He’s glad to feel the strength of her fingers, to see her eyes alert and bright. 

“Third day?” she asks. He nods. Reluctantly, she draws her hand away, sitting up from her pillows to take several deep, slow breaths. He recognises the routine: rib injuries are nothing new, to either of them. She takes a swig from the second cup of cold tea Mel had left by the bed, grimacing at the taste.

Max is surprised when she turns to move her legs off the bed, hanging onto the wall as she stands up.

“I’ve got bruised ribs, I’m supposed to keep moving,” she says, with an air of virtue. Max snorts with laughter, then winces when his lip and arm protest.

“Also have a thigh wound,” he points out. She sticks her tongue out at him, then sits down to cough, pressing her nub to her chest. Her ribs aren’t unscathed, then, though it’s not as bad as Mel feared.

Once she’s got her breath back, she looks him over again. Her gaze is softer this time, no longer spotting injuries. He realises that he’s staring back, both their bodies responding – breath a little faster, eyes a little darker. She stands up again, shuffles towards him. He would put his arm out, ready to catch her, if it weren’t bound up in plaster.

Furiosa is barefoot in a baggy t-shirt, the nearest thing Mel has to the hospital gowns of Before. She’s bandaged and bruised, purple and yellow on her face and down her thigh, her nipples hard under her shirt. He knows they should be resting, knows they’re both bashed up, but it’s ridiculous how much he wants her. She eyes his groin, and limps closer.

“Not just me, then,” she says, coming to a stop between his knees. He puts his uninjured right hand up to catch hers – part support, part just wanting to touch her. She squeezes his hand, then slides it into her shorts.

“In a hurry,” he points out, fingers stroking a little.

“Yeah.” She shoves her shorts down, lets them fall to her feet. “Can we?”

“Could stroke,” he offers, nudging his fingers further between her lips, feeling how wet she is. He watches her face, sees her cheeks flush and her breath change.

“Yeah, but.” She leans in to twitch his blanket away, making a satisfied noise when she finds his cock tenting his pyjama trousers. 

“Bossy,” he complains. She grins at him, and helps him work his pants down, using one hand each. Once his cock is out, she climbs carefully onto him, hopping a little on her right leg. It’s just as well the chair has no arms.

Inching into position is tricky, working out what they can do. When they face each other, his bad arm and her bad leg are on different sides, while they both need to be cautious about movement above the waist. Once she’s in his lap, she favours her right leg when she stands up again, holding his cock steady and sliding on. Adjusting to the stretch, getting the angle right, is a longer process than usual. By the time she gets there, they’re both sweating.

Max wraps his right arm around her waist, not quite low enough. She hisses as he brushes over the bruises up her side, but puts her hand to his mouth when he starts to say sorry. He kisses her fingers, drops his arm to her hips. Furiosa presses her hand to his cheek, takes a moment to breathe.

When she starts to rock, her range of motion is limited. Max tries thrusting up, but it doesn’t work, sending a flare of pain through his arm. He has to sit gasping while he recovers. She murmurs an apology, stroking his right shoulder, but doesn’t suggest that they stop. Neither does he. He knows exactly why she wants him inside her, why he wants that too: to get as close as they can, to feel their bodies alive and responsive, despite the latest round of injuries.

Furiosa starts to move again, slow and careful, squeezing her cunt muscles. She’s holding herself upright, rather than leaning into him, but tilts enough to get her lips to the unmarked corner of his mouth, kissing along his jaw to his ear.

“Next time,” she says, “What I’m going to do to you.” Her voice is rough, and he knows it’s not just because she’s hurting. She kisses under his ear, smiles against his skin when he groans with something that isn’t pain.

“Hold you so tight I’ll leave bruises,” she murmurs, though her fingers are moving very carefully around the bruises he actually does have. She can’t really grind down without using her left leg, so she squeezes harder, tight as she can, until he’s gasping. “Fingertip marks all – over – you.” 

“Sparring,” he manages. “Get me down, and I’ll lick you like that.” By the look on her face, she’s putting the idea away for later. Max can feel a grin starting, but smothers it before it can stretch his sore lip too far. He gets his hand to her buttock, kneading and stroking. 

“Up against the wall,” she says. “Or you putting me over your car.” He remembers the last time they did that, parked in a sheltered corner of the deserted garage, both too eager to make it upstairs. Once he’d got her bent over the hood with her leathers down, he hadn’t been able to resist going slow, stroking over the lovely bared curves of her body. He’d kept going until she’d been whining and thrusting back with impatience. She’d got her own back, a few nights later, sending him sprawling back onto the interceptor and clambering on top of him. Both memories come back together, in an urgent, heated jumble that makes his cock jerk inside her. She makes a smug little noise that turns into a moan.

“Biting me,” he gets out, in a growl, and she actually does it, a careful little nip on his ear. Max moans and thrusts up, hard. For a moment, it feels wonderful, but it’s a bad idea, jolting his arm. Even with the plaster cast holding them in place, there’s a sense of bones grinding together. The pain makes him dizzy, his eyes smarting.

When he can see straight, he finds Furiosa looking stricken. She’s holding absolutely still, not wanting to hurt him more. Her eyes are wet. 

Max knows that look, knows how it feels to be the one wearing it. He thinks of the drive back, with Furiosa spaced out and bloody in the passenger seat, fanging it to the Citadel to get her healed, to get her safe. And he thinks of the number of times he’s come back wounded, the times she or one of her patrols has rushed him to the infirmary. He leans in to rest his face against hers, mumbling, trying to soothe her.

“Shhh, shhh, s’okay, s’okay.” She takes a shaky breath, kisses his cheek. Her hand slides up the nape of his neck, then stops, because his scalp wound is at the front, but ruffling his hair anywhere might make it bleed again. The pain in his arm is fading; he doesn’t think he’s messed up Mel’s handiwork. “S’all right,” he says, nuzzling against her. “It’s okay.”

She’s petting him now, stroking wherever she thinks she can safely touch. He wishes he could hold her tight, wrap his arms around her and feel her cuddle against him. Kissing won’t comfort her when she knows his mouth still hurts, so he noses at her, rubbing his wet cheek against hers. Her breathing is still harsh, gasps and sniffs and snuffling noises. He’s no better. He knows they’re both crying, knows it’s not from pain. 

As they cling and stroke, she shifts just a little in his lap. His cock has been softening since he jolted his arm, but that makes it stir again. She murmurs, gives a small, tentative squeeze, follows it with another that makes him swallow.

Slowly, trying to match her pace, he slides his hand over her thigh, reaches between her legs. She gives a little whimper when he reaches her clit, bears down with her cunt muscles. He hums encouragement, though his voice isn’t quite steady. She starts her gentle rock and clench again, with a loud sob when he keeps stroking her. 

“S’good, it’s so good,” he murmurs into her ear, feeling her relax a little. He moans when she moves in his lap, speeding up, squeezing harder. He strokes faster, wanting to feel her respond. She pushes her face against his, lips moving against his cheek as if she’s speaking.

She’s suddenly reckless, grinding down fiercely. Max is about to protest, thinks it can’t be good for her leg, but the intensity of it just gets to him, movement and raw need. He’s already moaning when she clenches hard, driving him on. As he comes, he curls his fingers, feels her shudder and shiver around him.

She’s hardly finished when she starts coughing, pressing her nub against her side. Max is panting but he tries to hold her steady, fighting down a sense of panic at the noises she’s making. She must see it in his face: she shakes her head, still coughing, pulls in a deep, painful breath and gets herself under control. 

“Maybe shouldn’t have done that,” he says, tentative.

“Should,” she says, fierce. “I’m not sorry. Not ever sorry.” She puts her nub to his waist, firm against his side, and sighs. “Next time, I want to hold you.” Max moves his right arm back around her hip. She presses her cheek to his. They’re both sticky and sweaty, not really comfortable, quite apart from the aches. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want her to move.

“Should get back to bed,” he suggests. She pulls a face, but nods. He noses against her again. 

Furiosa stays a little longer before starting to climb off, holding his hand to keep herself steady. She tugs his pyjamas back up and smooths the blanket over them, ignoring the mess they’re both in. The washstand is only a few paces away, but it’s too far to walk and clean up. As it is, he thinks she’s going to fall if she tries to pick up her shorts. He hooks them with his foot, kicks them up so she can catch them. She smiles, sits down to put them on.

Once she’s made it back to bed, she reaches out to touch his side again. He holds her fingers for a moment before she pulls away, arranging herself against the pillows. Max doesn’t expect to sleep again, but they both doze, despite the sunlight brightening the room.

When Mel comes to check on them, they’re still very obviously flushed and rumpled.

“I didn’t think I needed to say no shenanigans,” she says. Furiosa looks obstinate; Max is trying to look as if he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Checking Furiosa’s leg, Mel sighs when she sees the bandage, some of the strapping worked loose. Still, she’s obviously pleased by the state of the wound under it, choosing a lighter bandage to replace the old one.

“Thank you,” says Furiosa, a little gruff. She looks at Mel, looks down. “I know I’m a bad patient.” Mel’s stern expression melts a little.

“If you’re getting into trouble,” she tells Furiosa, looking over to include Max in that, “I suppose you’re getting better.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834964) by [battle_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat)




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